


My Own Worst Enemy

by msbt



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, TWD kinkmeme, it's a sort of happy ending so please don't hate me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 14:08:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3413534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msbt/pseuds/msbt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carl gets hurt, and Rick blames Daryl for it. Rick goes kinda crazy and beats the shit out of Daryl like he did Tyreese back at the prison. <br/>(prompt from kinkmeme: http://twd-kinkmeme.livejournal.com/5396.html?thread=8035604#t8035604)</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Own Worst Enemy

Anger was implacable, ineradicable. Unstoppable. All he could see was red. A gash on his son's arm, blood soaking his sleeve. It was the image of the boy—he had been just a child at that time—falling to the ground lifeless with the malicious gunshot, or struggling in the filthy arms of the pervert and crying for help with his cheek cut open that flashed across Rick's mind before he quickly swung around and found his foe, the one he had to avenge the attack on, their eyes locked.

"Rick, I—" the voice of the man, who was transfixed in front of Rick, was filled with shock and panic, quivering, _fear_ clear in his widened eyes. Rick caught his hands tightening the grip on his crossbow, that damned crossbow which had been fired and caused a bolt to scrape Carl's arm and draw blood. The slightest movement of the man was the last trigger and hot fury washed over Rick, out of control.

Without words, without thoughts, without hesitation, he rushed straight towards the man and smashed him with a surge of hot, angry strength. The hunter's head snapped sideways and he stumbled back, almost falling to his knees, dark long hair covering his face. The grip on the crossbow went slack and it clattered on the floor of the shed as Rick threw another punch that hit him in his side and knocked the breath out of his lungs so violently he slumped down. Someone yelled somewhere, called Rick's name in a tone of intense surprise and dismay, but Rick didn't stop, couldn't stop his onslaught on his enemy, the dire threat to his son. Not after the Claimers. Not after Terminus.

There was no time to pause before Rick stepped into the man's space and gave a ferocious kick that made him curl up in a ball with a suppressed groan. He looked desperate to protect himself but willing to accept the pain, suffering, and punishment he deserved. It was a pitiful sight, but helpless to entreat Rick for mercy. His legs straddled the limp body beneath him, his hands grabbing the man's collar, slamming him against the wall. The sound of the man's head hitting the hard surface echoed in Rick's ears as he let out a painful gasp and quickly lifted his arms up to protect his face, wincing. Sheer instinct made him do so, it was obvious to anyone, but didn't mean that he had been allowed under this situation.

"Lower your hands," Rick hissed in anger, voice low and menacing, full of authority. There was a visible, violent flinch the man made but his body kept rigid like a statue, arms blocking his face with a slight tremble, in pain or terror. Balling his fists in the collar tighter, Rick moved closer so as not to let the man shy away from and ignore him. Rick's eyes boring into him were burning with the fierce fire of anger and blurring everything else in the world. "Now!"

Cringing at the bark filled with spite, the man finally lowered his arms despite his attempt to hide himself away, slowly enough to give Rick time to find every single sign of dread on his features: sweaty strands of the dark hair stuck to his already bruised cheek, brows knitted anxiously, tremulous lids fluttering, nearly veiling his eyes. Knowing what was coming next, ready to take it. There was apparently no resistance, no entreaty; just deep remorse and shame for what he had done was shown. It could have been admirable, but right now, Rick wasn't in the mood to buy any of it. 

As soon as those arms went down enough that his lips set in a tight, thin line came out, Rick released one hand from the collar, punching him in the nose as hard as he could. Blood spurted before he grabbed the man by the shirt again and threw him across the room. He crashed into a shelf in the corner, causing several plastic storage containers to rain down on top of him with loud noises. Rick was about to add another kick to the body that was limply lying on the floor when he felt someone's hands on his shoulders, a clear attempt to yank him back.

"Stop it asshole!" A woman's voice yelled near his ear as she pulled him away the man in the corner until he shook off her hands impatiently. What made him freeze was another voice, just as tight, just as accusing. "Dad, STOP! It's Daryl!"

The boy's voice, _his son's_ voice brought him back to the reality forcedly. He heard his own heavy breathing. He felt the wetness of blood on his own knuckles. He looked at the man who began to stagger to his feet, having trouble keeping himself straight, his bare arms and angel wings on the vest covered in dust. The man who had had his back throughout all these hard times, handed a bowl of his food to his pregnant wife and son, bled for the little missing girl, done whatever he could do for the group, for Rick. The man that Rick considered as his brother and something more than that. _Daryl._

"Christ, Daryl," Rick gasped, his throat and chest too tight to breathe sufficiently. And it was a real pain to see the man flinch at his voice despite contriteness seeping into the tone. Daryl snapped his head up to glance at Rick with the wide, alarmed eyes peeking through his long bangs, then looked away almost immediately, but it was enough for Rick to catch the sight of the blood smearing his nose and lips, the pure fear in his blue eyes, which tightened Rick's chest all the more, a wave of sickness roiling in his gut. This was not what he had meant to do. Definitely not.

"Hey, you take care of your boy." The hand tapped him on the upper arm with a softened voice and he turned around, finding Tara looking at him, her thumb pointing behind her shoulder. Carl was there, safe, alive, although his one arm was being wrapped in a bloody cloth. The shock in his eyes was just as obvious as when he had witnessed Rick biting a chunk out of the rogue's neck, then turned into an accusing look on his face as he said firmly. "Dad, I was the one who got in the line of fire. It's not Daryl's fault at all."

No words left Rick's mouth. A dead silence fell over the room, stealing his ability to speak, choking his throat until he heard a groan of pain coming from behind him and felt the air move. There was the sound of the door opening roughly and Carl was the first one who reacted with a slightly flustered look. "Where you going?"

"Gonna wash my face," the voice was too hoarse to be heard clearly. Rick couldn't turn around, didn't have the audacity to stop him. He remained still and silent as the door slammed shut behind him. He felt a bead of sweat trickle down his forehead but made no move to wipe it away, because his hands were sticky with blood. Daryl's blood. His stomach twisted and squeezed tightly with the waves of guilt and regret.

"Dad, don't let him alone." Carl took a step closer to him, staring directly into his eyes with one hand around his injured arm. "Please. I'm all right."

Seriousness and deep concern were clear in his voice, and there was no way Rick could turn his request down. He needed to thank him for giving him a push. Rick nodded determinedly, glancing at Tara who was waiting and watching them with patience. "Stay with her. I'll be back with him."

Seeing Carl nodding back and Tara shrugging nonchalantly, Rick bolted out of the shed as if, if it took him more time to go after the hunter, then he would never find him. So a sudden onset of panic hit him when he stepped outside only to notice that the man was nowhere in sight. There was just a desolate road surrounded by a thick forest. _No. This shouldn't be real. I can't lose him again._

Increasing desperation urged him on. Wasting no time he began running, and didn't expect to nearly bump into the man right around the corner of the shed. Which made both of them jump, Rick feeling his heart pounding loudly in his chest, keeping his eyes on Daryl who had literally sprung back like a wild rabbit. They were facing each other, staring intently and silently without looking away for what felt like eternity, long enough for Rick to scrutinize the hunter's exterior. The blood around his nose and mouth had been wiped away roughly, a few dried streaks left. The bruise on his cheek had turned an ugly purple, standing out against his skin, hand gripping the blood soaked rag tightly, slightly panicked breathing audible to him. And this look. This look of pure fear in his eyes, which reminded Rick too much of the kids under the desk or in the closet he had found when he had been called for domestic violence.

Rick couldn't face up to the consequences of what he had done, feeling like a heartless monster. He swallowed to push down the heavy lump in his throat, struggling to keep his voice steady. "Daryl, I, I'm sorry. I truly am."

As soon as the words left his nervous lips, the hunter looked away, gazing down at the rag in his hand. "Don't need to be. Ya had the right." Although the fear was buried beneath the gruff voice and impassive look with the skill that he had developed over the years, his downcast eyes and tense shoulders told Rick more than he wanted to know, wrenching his gut and heart.

"No, I didn't. No one had the right to hurt you like that. I don't know what to say, I justー, I'm so sorry... you okay? Need something?" Tilting his head Rick tried to make eye contact with Daryl, to express his sincere apology and concern, so aware of the hunter's eyes refusing and avoiding to look back at him.

"Nah, I'm fine. Go back to your kid." Daryl turned on his heel with a low, deadpan voice, slumping to the ground with his back against the wooden wall of the shed. There was a long, painful pause, silence, and hesitation before Rick decided it was not a time to retreat, not now. Slowly and carefully like he would do to a wounded alley cat, he took a step forward, closer to the man sitting, mindful of any changes and signs in Daryl's features as he let himself sink down to the ground with the proper distance between them.

Daryl saying nothing and keeping averting his eyes brought him an odd combination of relief and disappointment, and he just kept himself silent, watching the hunter's hand reach out and dip the rag into a plastic bucket filled with rainwater. He wrung it, pressing against his nose and bruised cheek so that the stained rag and scraggly hair concealed his face almost completely from Rick. He waited patiently, careful not to pay too much attention to Daryl even though they both knew the air was tense and uncomfortable. He just sat there, studying his own fidgeting fingers until there was a muffled voice coming from the man staring down at the ground blankly.

"M'sorry," was barely heard because of the rag he was holding against his face, surprising Rick not a little. It was not something he expected. His head turned towards Daryl with a frown of confusion. "Why?"

"T'was on me. My bad aiming." Daryl kept looking down so the expression on his face was totally unreadable, but the tone of his voice was enough to add new pangs to Rick's chest. This time there was no hesitation as he let his body lean forward to close the distance between them, trying to catch the other's eyes.

"It was not your fault," he said softly but firmly, and couldn't help but extend one hand to get his attention when he found no change in his posture. "Hey. Look at me." His hand touched Daryl's bent knee, that lightest touch jerking him back to the present. Rick didn't like the way he flinched at his movement but his eyes were fixed on his now, and it was better than being ignored.

"Daryl, it was not." Staring at him earnestly Rick tried again with a little squeeze on his knee. He felt how tense Daryl was under his touch, saw how uneasy and cautious he was in his eyes locked Rick's, but he had to make sure Daryl would take his words to heart. After a few moments of staring Daryl dropped his gaze again and started to gnaw at the thumbnail of his right hand that was gripping the rag as if he tried to punish himself more persistently than anyone else would have done, then mumbled around the thumb so softly. "Ain't your fault, either."

Rick blinked, stunned. That was when he realized he had been blaming himself for what had happened to Carl. The failure to protect his son. _His_ failure.

He didn't know what to say. All he could do was nod tentatively and let his hand rub down the hunter's knee in a reassuring way as he turned away to look at anywhere but him. The silence stretched between them again, wide and awkward, but Rick could feel Daryl's body relaxing a bit under his soothing touch, knowing he had already forgiven his outburst. That was everything.


End file.
